Primed: A Kayla Madison Story

Primed Part 8

CHAPTER FOUR: FRIEND OR FOE-UH? (CONT)

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"Is that you Kayla?" Mom yelled from the kitchen.

"Yeah, It's me." I dropped off my bag and bike helmet in the hallway. I resolved to act as normal as possible since I didn't want to worry my mom.

"Your father called a few minutes ago. He's picking up some paper towels but will be back soon. His boss is joining us for dinner so set the table for four."

"He's not my father," I snapped as I walked into the kitchen.

She sighed. "Must we do this now? Your step-father is almost home." She turned from the skillet and saw my disheveled appearance. "Are you okay? What happened?"

I had forgotten I must look like I'd been put through a meat grinder. So much for my plan to act like nothing happened. "I'm okay. A tire on my bike blew out."

"Poor Sweetie!" Mom had on nice black pants, a red silk blouse, and a gold chunky necklace. Her brown hair had been curled at the ends. It was a nice change from her usual dreaded "mom jeans" and cotton top. "Come sit and tell me everything." She patted a kitchen chair.

Before I could speak, a voice called out, "I'm home!"

"We're in the kitchen," Mom said then patted my hand. "Hold that thought, Kayla."

Bob walked into the room obviously having purchased more than just paper towels. His mouse-brown hair was ruffled and his glasses were a bit off-centered from trying to balance too big a load of groceries—even for his tall frame. The scent of throat lozenges permeated the room—a by-product of Bob's voice being permanently thrashed from his teenage years as the lead singer in a heavy metal, never-to-be-seen-outside-the-garage, garage band.

"Carol, guess what was on sale?" Bob asked.

"From what I can see, about half the store." Mom grabbed a bag from him to allow him to readjust his glasses. She turned her attention back to the frying pan.

Bob looked at me. "Kayla, are you okay? You look like you had a rough day."

"Bad tire incident," I said.

"Well, glad you are safe." He seemed to know something else was up but didn't want to push me, instead he helped mom unpack the groceries.

It wasn't that I hated Bob, it was just too easy for him to step into our family a few years ago. He even had the same last name. It ticked me off that I couldn't even have my dad's name to myself. As if that wasn't bad enough, people often said I resembled Bob more than my mother. It hurt like someone pouring lemon juice into a paper cut any time it happened.

"Go ahead and wash up. Bob can help me right now," Mom said as she gently smoothed out my hair before once again going back to the skillet.

"I don't feel up to eating right now." I held up my scraped hands.

Mom and Bob passed unspoken words between them with just a look. Mom nodded and said, "Greet Bob's boss and then you can rest and pack."

"Thanks." I suddenly appreciated my visible wounds.

I couldn't let myself dwell on the seriousness of what happened, or I'd be too freaked out to do anything. I walked down the hallway from the kitchen and into the bathroom. I viewed myself in the mirror. Apparently almost getting killed did nothing for my hair and makeup. At the moment, my eyes were more bloodshot than teal and my hair could have belonged to a creature in a Tim Burton film.